


Scholar's Mate

by halffabrikat



Category: Umineko no Naku Koro ni | When the Seagulls Cry, Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Chess, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Nonbinary Chara (Undertale), Nonbinary Frisk (Undertale), mentions of... botany?, odd choice of crossover, played straight, references to several other characters, runs off umineko rules but there aren't any appearances from characters from it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-06
Updated: 2018-12-06
Packaged: 2019-08-24 12:22:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16640018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/halffabrikat/pseuds/halffabrikat
Summary: The Sorcerer of Hope receives a visit from the Witch of Collapse.Or, a crossover between Undertale and Umineko, and maybe also something else. Sort of.





	Scholar's Mate

Somewhere deep in the Sea of Kakera, a solitary, young Witch works. Their red eyes shine beneath a hood of green and off-yellow, studying the chessboard set atop the table in front of them. Every so often, a brief spell of wind forces them to brush brown locks away from their face. The simplistic clothes that they wear, almost  _casual_ in comparison to the usual fashion of their species, act as something of a signal that they're relatively new to their 'ascension.' Contrary to the usual Witch, they resemble the sort of person who'd rather fade into the background, with their most defining feature being the golden, heart-shaped locket worn around their neck.

On all sides, they're surrounded by fields of golden flowers, maintained with meticulous - and manual, ordinary - care by the Sorcerer at the center of the garden. Far, far above them sits an infinite stretch of stone, acting as the ceiling to their domain. Every so often, the Witch shifts their attention from the chessboard up to the wall of rock, and it never fails to bring a nostalgic smile back to their otherwise empty expression.

It's nothing but a temporary respite, however. They have work to do. Once again, the Sorcerer of Hope looks to their chessboard, and reassembles things, creating a different permutation. Once again, the world beneath this world rearranges itself to match, and things begin again from this foundation, although the inciting incident is always the same. A child, of about eight years old, falls into the underground while seeking shelter from the rain. They encounter the Witch's primary piece, and are loosely guided by it, as a spirit. They adventure through the ruins, the snow, the rain, the heat - and eventually find their way to the Barrier, and then, by some means or another, depart.

These are permanent, immutable things. No matter how many pieces change their place, no matter how many - if any - are slain, these aspects of the Sorcerer's board are static. Sometimes, the monsters remain trapped beneath the surface of the Earth. Sometimes, a precise arrangement of pieces leads the Human to a mass slaughter, culminating in the erasure of the Kakera.

Sometimes, in the Kakeras that the Witch loathes the most, the ones that are _so close_ and yet _so far_ from their goal, **he** appears. Asriel Dreemurr.

And it's always, always fleeting. After he's saved the world, and all living things in it, Asriel sacrifices his own happiness, and soon after returns to being nothing but a monument to the Sorcerer's failure. Once again, another static point, that seems unchangeable.

_How selfless of him_.

As the bitter, sarcastic thought races through their mind, the Witch's fingers claw around their locket. How many versions of the world have they watched? How many have they assembled, seen through to a nihilistic or bittersweet end, and thrown away because they _lack_ the one, singular thing they want most: a happy ending for the person they cherish?

How many of them could be left...?

No.

Don't think like that. _Don't think like that._ Frustration eats the Witch's focus, and they turn away from the board. Simultaneously, the lower layer of the world - another instance of the underground - suddenly halts, in the midst of a battle between the fallen human and nautical knight. Not that it would've mattered. Earlier in the timeline, the child had accidentally slain the caretaker of the Ruins. If even a single death occurs, Asriel cannot be reborn, and remains a flower forever.

Sometimes, they ask themselves why they even bother seeing through a doomed venture to the very end. What do they stand to gain? Maybe it's some bizarre form of catharsis, watching the world die again and again, and it _is_ a bit of an ego-boost to watch themselves be the one to call down the curtains.

One of their hands drifts back to the board, and with a crack of their wrist, it's been reset. Every piece is in its initial position. Over the next few minutes, a thousand different scenarios have been run, and seen through to their inevitable conclusion: disappointment. Letting out a sigh, the Witch retreats from the board, instead distracting themselves with the garden. Someone has to take care of the flowers.

After some time away, handling the garden, a sigh of relief leaves their mouth, and they're prepared to return to their self-appointed mission with a comparatively clear head. Just take a step back, and think of the other possibilities. There's only so many pieces, and only so many arrangements of them. Something else flickers into their mind, a minor realization: if no collection of these pieces will resolve the way they hope for, maybe they just need to toss in another piece...?

But which are still leftover in the figurative box? There aren't any discarded or unused pieces, besides... that one. The very thought of incorporating it causes the Witch to giggle. It's the same sort of uncomfortable, awkward laugh that's almost indistinguishable from the average person's idea of nervous laughter. They speak aloud in the empty garden, with a fabricated, bright smile.

"At least I can rule that one out. Knowing what's useless simplifies things."

Within seconds, a cold wind spreads through the garden, heading straight for the Sorcerer's spine. Their eyes go _wide_ , and they utter a quiet, muffled curse under their breath. Shadows begin to spread from the flowers, table, chair - objects that otherwise had none, in this land that never previously bothered with _physics._ The darkness itself began to speak, surrounding the Witch in a cacophony of the same voice.

"ʜᴏᴡ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ɴᴇᴠᴇʀ ʟᴇᴀʀɴᴇᴅ?"

With a snap of their wrist, a knife of a deep red color materializes itself in the Witch's left hand. Yet, they remain silent, listening intently to the voice, patiently awaiting the moment it coalesces into a singular form. There has to be _some_ specific direction to target eventually, right?

"ɪᴛ's ʀᴜᴅᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴛᴀʟᴋ ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ sᴏᴍᴇᴏɴᴇ ᴡʜᴏ's ʟɪsᴛᴇɴɪɴɢ."

The sentence is punctuated by a shrill, harsh noise that _approximates_ a cackle, but with something deeply, if implacably, wrong about it. Fortunately, however, it appeared to be localized to a single point - a good three feet into the garden, dead behind the Sorcerer and their chessboard. In less than a second, they've spun around, and with the added momentum sent the knife towards the intruder.

Said intruder is a hulking _mass_ of moving darkness, a good twelve feet tall, whose amalgamated shadows melt away and roll into the grass beneath him, manifesting as more like a sentient fountain of oil in slow motion - with a mask of white bones holding in the rough place where a person's face would be, all curled and bent to mimic a snide expression.

And as of a fraction of a moment ago, a crimson knife jutting out from his center of mass. The two upper bones comprising the entity's visage turn in the black sludge, aiming their most jagged point towards the intrusion.

"ᴡᴇʀᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ᴛʀʏɪɴɢ ᴛᴏ ᴀssᴀᴜʟᴛ ᴍᴇ? ᴡʜᴀᴛ ᴡᴀs ᴛʜᴀᴛ sᴜᴘᴘᴏsᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ᴀᴄʜɪᴇᴠᴇ, ᴄʜɪʟᴅ?"

"This is _my_ domain, _my_ board, you're not..."

They never finish the thought. Their eyes are glued to the knife embedded in the core of the titan of tar, as it begins to bubble, crack, and corrode. Within moments, it's been absorbed into the fluid mass of darkness. Fear strikes the Sorcerer, and they begin to back away from the threat - but not too quickly, worrying that a sudden enough movement might agitate it.

"ɪɴᴠɪᴛᴇᴅ? ᴀɴ ᴜɴᴜsᴜᴀʟ ᴄᴏᴍᴘʟᴀɪɴᴛ, ᴄᴏᴍɪɴɢ ғʀᴏᴍ ʏᴏᴜ."

The Sorcerer's retreat is abruptly halted, and from pure reflex, they've summoned - and subsequently thrown - another knife towards the intruder, which meets much the same fate as the previous one. A million lives flash before their eyes, and they fully expect the creature to retaliate, and somehow deliver them a final death. They blink their eyes shut, and mutter a nearly silent apology under their breath, for everyone they'd met before.

"sᴏ ᴠɪᴏʟᴇɴᴛ. ɪ ᴏɴʟʏ ᴡɪsʜᴇᴅ ғᴏʀ ᴀ ᴄᴏɴᴠᴇʀsᴀᴛɪᴏɴ."

A pause. They reluctantly open one of their eyes, and tilt their head to the side. He had the chance to kill them, didn't he? Why would anyone turn that down, they wonder...? An answer works its way into their mind, and they speak it.

"You're just some figment of my imagination, you're - you're not _here._ So... there's nothing to talk about."

The frightened grimace that painted their face falters, soon after replaced by a proud smirk as an idea springs to mind. Standing up straight, they open both of their eyes, and stare dead towards him. They clear their throat, and the garden is eclipsed in a rose-colored hue, as determination wells up inside of them.

"And I'll prove it. I'll send you back to hell, with this Red Truth."

A scarlet aura bends around them, reflecting off of every surface it touches, and a triumphant smile rises on their face, as they prepare the ultimate conceptual weapon.

"You aren't here. You don't exist."

Despite the Red Truth denying his existence, the shadowy intruder remained as stoic as ever, looking like he was just patiently waiting for a child's tantrum to end. The Sorcerer continued on nonetheless, undeterred. Maybe there's just a bit of a delay before he's to be erased...? So they hope.

"I'm the only one in this garden. There's... no one else."

A particular column of tar raised from the core of the creature, acting something like a limb - an arm, probably - and the bones of its face looked towards it. It took a moment for the Sorcerer to realize what the gesture was.

He was checking his nonexistent watch. He was _mocking them._ And worse still, it might not have even been on purpose.

"I'm... I'm alone."

Their breathing gets funny, as the aura of red fades from the garden. They look down to their shoes, and the grass beneath them, as the sound of clapping begins to echo throughout the area. One final bit of applause from the audience, appreciating the grand old gag. When he's finished, there's nothing to smother the sound of a single, defeated sniffle from the Witch.

"ᴀɴᴅ ʏᴇᴛ, ɪᴛ ᴍᴏᴠᴇs. ᴍᴀʏ ɪ ᴘʀᴏᴄᴇᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ᴍʏ ɪɴᴛʀᴏᴅᴜᴄᴛɪᴏɴ, ᴄʜɪʟᴅ?"

With a growl, the Witch snapped back to barking denials.

"I'm not a child! I'm _centuries_ old - "

Emotion rarely worked its way into the entity's voice, but there was a clear undercurrent of exasperation as he interrupted them.

"ᴅᴏ ɴᴏᴛ ʟɪᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴍᴇ. ʏᴏᴜ ᴀʀᴇ ᴀ ᴄʜɪʟᴅ. ᴊᴜsᴛ ᴀs ʏᴏᴜ ᴡᴇʀᴇ ᴡʜᴇɴ ʏᴏᴜ ғᴇʟʟ."

...By the time that the Sorcerer had summoned - and promptly thrown - a third knife, the other was prepared. A solid wall of black acid shielded the intruder, liquefying the magical steel on contact, and he continued speaking as if they hadn't done anything of the sort.

"ᴡʜᴇɴ ʏᴏᴜ ᴄᴏɴsᴜᴍᴇᴅ ᴛʜᴏsᴇ ғʟᴏᴡᴇʀs."

A cold chill runs down the Sorcerer's back, as some deep part of them knows exactly where the intruder is going to venture next. In the half-second before he continues, they visualize their options inside their mind's eye. Attacking him hasn't worked, denial hasn't worked, fleeing, crying, screaming - none of those would work. The tree of decisions takes just a moment too long.

"ᴡʜᴇɴ ʏᴏᴜ ʜɪᴅ ғʀᴏᴍ ᴍᴇɴ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄᴇɴᴏʙɪᴜᴍ. ᴡʜᴇɴ ʏᴏᴜ sᴡᴏʀᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇᴍ ʏᴏᴜʀ ɴᴀᴍᴇ ᴡᴀs -"

"I'm a child."

Another Red Truth pierces the air, and it cuts him off. The bones comprising the monster's face shift once again, creating the smuggest, most self-satisfied grin they could, as he watched the _child_ hang their head low in surrender. He took this as his chance to, finally, move on to the introduction he'd been preparing for since his arrival. Whether or not the recipient was too despondent to hear it.

"ᴠᴏʏᴀɢᴇʀ ᴡɪᴛᴄʜ ᴀɴᴅ ᴀᴄᴄᴏᴍᴘʟɪsʜᴇᴅ sᴄɪᴇɴᴛɪsᴛ. ᴍʏ ᴅᴏᴍᴀɪɴ ɪs ᴄᴏʟʟᴀᴘsᴇ."

The Voyager extends a rough analog of a hand towards the child, and portions of the tar roll back to reveal sharp fractures of bone that act as fingers. Reluctantly, the younger meets it with one of their own hands, grasping his without another sound. The two remain there in an uncomfortable silence for _minutes_ , before the Sorcerer clears their throat, and breaks the silence with clearly obvious hesitance drowning every word.

"...And why are you here?"

After retracting his 'hand,' the Voyager's shape and form began to condense into one that more accurately resembled a proper humanoid, although it never looked truly perfect - which might be what he intended, as the Sorcerer realizes. Perhaps this disconcerting, otherworldly appearance was his ideal aesthetic. Becoming slightly smaller was purely a pragmatic choice, so that he'd better fit into the chair opposite of them, across the table.

"ɪ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴛʜᴇ sᴀᴍᴇ ɢᴏᴀʟ ᴀs ᴍᴏsᴛ ᴡɪᴛᴄʜᴇs ᴏғ ᴍʏ ᴄʟᴀss. ᴀᴠᴏɪᴅɪɴɢ ʙᴏʀᴇᴅᴏᴍ. ɪ ɪᴍᴀɢɪɴᴇᴅ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴀssɪsᴛɪɴɢ ʏᴏᴜ ɪɴ ғɪɴᴀʟʟʏ ᴍᴀᴛᴜʀɪɴɢ ᴄᴏᴜʟᴅ ʙᴇ..."

He pauses. Red eyes refused to settle onto him, as the Sorcerer idly adjusted, reset, and readjusted the pieces in front of them, although they peered off into distant space rather than anything material. That didn't stop them from raising a single eyebrow, though, uncomfortable with both the choice of words, and the lull.

"ᴠᴇʀʏ, ᴠᴇʀʏ ɪɴᴛᴇʀᴇsᴛɪɴɢ."

"What the fuck is that supposed to mean?"

Another of those monstrous, _wrong_ cackles leaves him, although it sounds as if the garden itself is the source of the sound. The Sorcerer internalizes it as just another method to put them on edge, by impersonating the sensation of being caught in a crowd, when you're the punchline.

"ᴅᴏ ʏᴏᴜ ᴋɴᴏᴡ ᴡʜᴀᴛ ᴀ ᴄʜɪʟᴅ ɪs?"

The younger Witch waits patiently for about a minute, absently flicking over one of the board's bishops, fully expecting the question to be rhetorical. A growing silence eventually proves them wrong, and after a roll of their eyes, they fire back with more questions.

"What's it mean to you? What's the answer you _want_ from me?"

It'd be a waste of time to give a proper answer, they felt. Whatever he had intended, it was extremely unlikely that it was some normal, colloquial definition. In the midst of their questions, although they didn't notice it, the bishop they'd flicked over set itself upright.

"sᴏᴍᴇᴏɴᴇ ᴡʜᴏ ᴄᴀɴɴᴏᴛ ᴄʀᴇᴀᴛᴇ. sᴏᴍᴇᴏɴᴇ ᴡʜᴏ ᴄᴀɴɴᴏᴛ ᴍᴏᴠᴇ ᴏɴ."

_Move on._ The words struck them as the most personal insult he could've lobbed their way. They grit their teeth, and the scientist grasps one of the pieces - king's pawn, white - and sets it two spaces forward. Afterward, he folds his hands together, and gently sets them down on the table.

"Are you... are you trying to tell me to give up?"

A curled, skeletal finger meets his lower lip, suggesting that a direct yes-or-no answer would be too misleading. He chose to elaborate further, instead. In the moment before he began to explain, the Sorcerer moved one of their own pieces forward on the board, mounting a common defense. Their own kingside pawn being moved two spaces ahead, mirroring the first move.

"sᴏᴍᴇᴅᴀʏ, ʏᴏᴜ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴛᴏ ʟᴇᴀʀɴ ᴡʜᴇɴ ᴛᴏ ǫᴜɪᴛ."

The scientist grabs for his newly revealed bishop, and slides it along a few spaces - three, precisely.

"...ᴏʀ, ʀᴀᴛʜᴇʀ, ʀᴇᴀʟɪᴢᴇ ᴡʜᴇɴ ʏᴏᴜ ɴᴇᴇᴅ ᴀɴᴏᴛʜᴇʀ's ʜᴇʟᴘ."

Once again, his actions are mirrored. Black's kingside bishop meets white's kingside bishop, face-to-face, in a standoff.

"If this is about _Asriel_ , I refuse. I won't give up on him."

With a slight hint of a grin, the Voyager's fingers gripped his queen, and sent it along to the far-right edge of the board, from his perspective. His hands fold on the table - in his mind, he'd already won.

"ᴡʜᴀᴛ ᴀʀᴇ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴛʀᴜᴇ ɪɴᴛᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴs, ᴄʜɪʟᴅ? ᴅᴏ ʏᴏᴜ ᴡɪsʜ ᴛᴏ sᴀᴠᴇ ʜɪᴍ, ᴏʀ sᴜʀᴠɪᴠᴇ ᴡɪᴛʜ ʜɪᴍ?"

A pair of questions that pierced the Sorcerer, yet again. They flounder, forced to consider their own interests that have been left just slightly out of their frame of mind, all this while. Their next move reflects their unchecked aggression, maneuvering their knight into the proper position to take the scientist's queen on a hypothetical _next turn._

"Save him, of course. I'm not _that_ selfish."

They couldn't have sounded more defensive if they tried. Immediately knowing that he'd struck a nerve, and that the game was no longer their opponent's main interest, the scientist folded his arms across the thing approximating a chest, and lounged back in his chair.

"ʜᴏᴡ ɴᴏʙʟᴇ. ᴡɪʟʟɪɴɢ ᴛᴏ sᴀᴄʀɪғɪᴄᴇ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴏᴡɴ ʜᴀᴘᴘɪɴᴇss ғᴏʀ ᴀɴᴏᴛʜᴇʀ."

All the Sorcerer could manage was a nod, as their gaze avoided him, straying up to the ceiling above.

"ɪғ ʏᴏᴜʀ ɪɴᴛᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴs ᴀʀᴇ ᴛʀᴜʟʏ ᴀs ᴀʟᴛʀᴜɪsᴛɪᴄ ᴀs ʏᴏᴜ ᴄʟᴀɪᴍ, ɪ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ᴀɴsᴡᴇʀ ᴛᴏ ᴀʟʟ ᴏғ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴘʀᴀʏᴇʀs."

They shut their eyes, as tightly as they can, and barely manage to croak out a syllable. They wouldn't dare interrupt with anything else, and risk jeopardizing the offer of the key to their happiness, when it may have finally been in reach.

"What?"

"ᴀ ᴄᴇʀᴛᴀɪɴ ᴍɪʀᴀᴄʟᴇ ᴋᴀᴋᴇʀᴀ. ɪᴛ ʀᴇʟɪᴇs ᴏɴ ᴀ ᴅᴇᴠɪᴀᴛɪɴɢ ᴘᴏɪɴᴛ ᴍɪʟʟᴇɴɴɪᴀ ʙᴇғᴏʀᴇ ʏᴏᴜʀ ɪɴɪᴛɪᴀʟ ᴀʀʀɪᴠᴀʟ. ʜᴇɴᴄᴇ ᴡʜʏ ɴᴏ ᴀʀʀᴀɴɢᴇᴍᴇɴᴛ ᴏғ ʏᴏᴜʀ ʜɪsᴛᴏʀʏ ᴄᴏᴜʟᴅ ғɪɴᴅ ɪᴛ."

It doesn't take long for them to realize a limitation of this, however. Still refusing to look to him, they go still, entirely motionless, all except for their eyes struggling to blink away tears.

"But... I wouldn't be able to _be there_. I'd only be able to watch, from this garden?"

"ᴄᴏʀʀᴇᴄᴛ. ᴀᴄᴛɪɴɢ ᴀs ᴀ sᴘᴇᴄᴛᴀᴛᴏʀ ᴛᴏ ᴀ ʟɪғᴇ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ʏᴏᴜ ᴄᴏᴜʟᴅ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ʟɪᴠᴇᴅ."

One, particular word that the scientist spoke stuck out in their mind. With all the cleverness that they felt at that moment, they didn't even consider that he must've known they'd take this course. It acted as the root to a _devious_ plan. A way to get all they ever dreamed of, as more than just an outsider, a witch of theater-going.

The word that dragged them back to the cauldron of hell was a simple " _you."_

Who better to act as a vessel - a Piece, a bit of furniture - for their Soul, than another version of _them_? All that they'd need to do is get access to the board alone, without the scientist breathing down their neck, and they could do it.

"I accept your offer. Without hesitation. Whatever contract, whatever you need from me - I'll do it."

With another smile, only competing with the Sorcerer's own, the Voyager rose from his seat, and returned to his full stature as an amorphous colossus of sludge. His hands came together ahead of him, and between them, he summoned the 'miracle Kakera' he spoke of - in the more portable, crystalline form that some Voyagers preferred to store their boards.

"ᴀʟʟ ɪ ᴡɪsʜ ғᴏʀ ɪs..."

The child grasps for the Kakera, as it slowly floats into their range. After a broad flash of light, accompanied by a wave of pure force, the Kakera has transformed the world beneath the garden. Its representation, the chessboard, was scrambled into a thoroughly impossible arrangement - at least, according to the rules that it previously had abided. Not all of the pieces used even _existed_ on the previous board. Some of white's pieces remained in their previous places, however.

"ʏᴏᴜʀ ғᴇᴇᴅʙᴀᴄᴋ."

With one final cackle, the intruder faded away from the garden. The shadows that his presence had caused to form dissipated, and the man himself was gradually reduced to nothing but wisps of black smoke and ash. The Voyager had left this board behind, leaving the Sorcerer alone with his final gift - a view into a world that should've been impossible.

Or, what was ostensibly merely a view.

The child peered into it, giving a cursory examination to the life that they could've led, had events long before their birth transpired differently. That life showed them - the only human - being given a different name by monsters on the surface. It showed them learning, growing, playing, long after the date they would've died, all with Asriel by their side.

_All with Asriel by their side._

Their fingers wrap tightly around their locket, and they remove it, before setting it down in the center of the chessboard. They knew what they had to do - there was zero doubt left in their mind. The locket would only get in the way.

They open their mouth in this world of Witches, one last time, to utter only a few words, cloaked in the same language of Truth that they'd earlier used while trying to erase the scientist from their domain.

"I'll see you soon, Asriel."

Red begins to drip down their chest, mixing with the green and yellow of the grass and flowers below, as their nails press deeper, and deeper, into their skin. Until they've clasped around their Soul.

Animated by an unseen force, just out of focus, white's queen slides along and captures one of the child's pawns. In the process, it locks their king into an inescapable position. Or, in a word -

Checkmate.


End file.
